And Fiona knew, with a quiet certainty that went beyond reason, that everything would be well.
They had come too far to lose their happiness now.
Epilogue
One Year Later
The portrait hung in the great gallery, between a stern-faced ancestor in Elizabethan ruffs and a powdered lady from the previous century who looked perpetually disapproving.
It was, by any measure, an unusual addition to the collection.
Most family portraits depicted their subjects in formal poses—standing rigidly, sitting stiffly, arranged according to the dictates of convention and propriety.
This one was different. In this one, the Duke of Thornwick sat in an armchair by a fire, his collar open, his birthmark visible, his expression soft with an emotion that previous Dukes had clearly never experienced: happiness.
And on his lap, cradled against his chest, was a baby.
The Duchess stood beside them, one hand resting on her husband’s shoulder, the other reaching down to touch the infant’s cheek. She was smiling—not the practised smile of portraiture, but a real smile, warm and genuine and full of love.
The baby, for his part, was attempting to stuff his fist in his mouth.
“It is a bit unconventional,” Lady Ashworth observed, standing before the portrait with a critical eye. “But I suppose that is rather the point.”
“It is exactly the point.” Christian stood beside his aunt, his arms folded, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. “I spent thirty years being ashamed of who I was. I will not have my son—or anyone who comes after him—believing that shame was justified.”
“And the birthmark?” Lady Ashworth nodded toward the painted version of the wine-dark stain. “You are certain you want it displayed so prominently?”
“I am certain.” Christian’s voice was firm. “It is part of me. It has always been part of me. And I am done pretending otherwise.”
Lady Ashworth studied the portrait a moment longer. Then, slowly, she smiled.
“Your father would have hated it.”
“I know.”
“He would have had it burned.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.” She patted his arm. “It is perfect, then.”
The nursery was bright with afternoon sunlight.
Fiona sat in the rocking chair by the window, Edward cradled in her arms, watching his face as he drifted toward sleep. He was a sturdy, healthy boy with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s grey eyes—and he had, as Christian had feared, inherited the birthmark.
It was smaller than his father’s, spreading across his left shoulder and upper arm rather than his chest and throat. But it was unmistakably the same: wine-dark, distinctive, the mark that had defined Christian’s life.
When Edward had been born, and the midwife had revealed the stain, Fiona had held her breath. She had watched Christian’s face, waiting for the devastation, the grief, the crushing return of all the shame he had worked so hard to overcome.
Instead, he had wept.
Not with despair, but with fierce, protective love. He had taken his son in his arms and pressed a kiss to the tiny birthmark and sworn, in a voice rough with emotion, that this child would never know the suffering he had endured. That this child would be raised to see himself as beautiful, exactly as he was. That this child would be loved.
He had kept that promise every day since.
“He is asleep.” Fiona’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She looked up to find Christian in the doorway, watching them with an expression that made her heart ache.
“You should put him down.” He crossed the room, moving quietly, and bent to press a kiss to first his wife’s forehead, then his son’s. “Mrs Blackley has been asking after you. Something about the arrangements for next week’s dinner.”
